A Spinner's Tale
by Philippa
Summary: Modern Myth. Reluctant Romance. Preposterous Plot. Happy ending included.COMPLETE
1. On the Dangers of Affectionate Fathers

Disclaimer: I did not invent the tale of Rumpelstiltskin. The opening paragraphs of each chapter are my own paraphrases of the original story.

_Once upon a time there lived a poor miller who had only one child, a daughter. Now the girl was beautiful, and she was also clever, which is more to be valued than beauty. One day, as the king was passing by in his coach, he saw the girl and ordered the horses to stop. The miller came out, bowing very low before the king. "Who is that beautiful girl?" asked the king. "She is my daughter," replied the miller, "and she is as clever as she is beautiful." Then his pride got the better of him and he added, "Why, she is so clever, she can spin straw into gold." "This is a talent that pleases me well," cried the king, for he was very greedy, despite his immense wealth. "Bring her to my palace tomorrow, that we may have proof of this matter."_

Chapter 1: On the Dangers of Affectionate Fathers

"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Miller."

Richard Miller ran a finger beneath his suddenly too tight collar. "Yes, sir, of course sir. What would you like to know…sir?"

The man-behind-the-desk leaned back in his chair and eyed the scrawny figure before him with the assurance of one who holds destiny in his hands. The man-behind-the desk was tall and broad-shouldered, with a superb tan, and an Armani suit perfectly tailored to his impressive physique. The man-behind-the-desk was Maximus Ferdinand King (the fourth), and since his primary rival, Prestin Kimstull (the seventh), had mysteriously disappeared three years earlier, he was in truth, king of American mega-corporations.

The man in front of the desk shifted in dress shoes that pinched and avoided making eye contact with the man-behind-the-desk. He was Richard Miller (the first), an expendable accountant, who had once aspired to be a novelist.

"I know you are industrious, honest, and virtuous. Otherwise you wouldn't be working for me." There was a pause, and Richard, sensing some response was expected, forced a chuckle. M. F. King's eyes gleamed as he continued in tones of smooth velvet, "No, Mr. Miller, I think you should tell me about your family. I feel the need to become more involved in my employees' lives. After all, what affects you, affects our whole community here at Mulctuary Money Management."

"Yes, Mr. King, my family." Richard took a deep breath. "My wife is…is…" His mind flashed a terrifying blank. Where was his wife? Oh yes… "My wife is dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you, sir. I also have one…" One what? Waffle iron? No! "…daughter," Richard finished weakly.

"Tell me about your daughter, Mr. Miller. What is her name? How old is she?"

"Rachel. Twenty. Scholarship. Very clever." To Richard Miller, his Rachel was the cleverest girl in the world, even if her ears did stick out a little more than normal. There was any number of marvelous things she could do including, but not limited to, shopping for a straight six hours and staying within her budget, single-handedly keeping five three-year-olds under control, and baking the most delectable carmel-rasberry-triple-fudge cookies known to man. Somehow, in the depths of his fatherly pride, Richard Miller sensed that M. F. King would not be impressed by these accomplishments. And then he had a rare flash of inspiration. "She can spin straw into gold."

"What?"

"Not really straw into gold, just a metaphor. You know the fairy tale?" Richard asked hopefully, wishing he could mop his brow.

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"Ah, well, you see Rachel, my daughter, she can take a block of worthless stocks, and by the end of the day she's traded them into a fortune." Richard was proud of himself. This was a story guaranteed to attract King's interest.

"That is a remarkable talent," murmured King, his face inscrutable. "But, forgive me if I sound dubious, Mr. Miller, if your daughter has such an amazing gift, why are you working for me?"

Richard's mind worked frantically. "Humble! Rachel doesn't feel that spinning straw, er, trading stocks is the best use of her time. She'd rather be out helping people. I'm very proud of her."

"It would not take long for her to amass enough wealth to allow her to devote the rest of her life to philanthropy and still live in comfort."

"Weak character," croaked Richard. "Rachel and I both feel that too much wealth destroys a person's…" Too late he remembered who he was lying to. With all the sensations of a drowning man going down for the third time, Richard gasped, "Not you, of course, sir. Only people without the moral stamina to…to…"

"Like you?" King asked, with the faint trace of a smile.

"Like me," sighed Richard, wishing he could be sick in the small potted palm by the window.

"Your Rachel must be a rare woman indeed, to be able to both acquire riches and resist them."

"Remarkable," agreed Richard.

"I must meet her. Such a jewel cannot be allowed to remain in obscurity."

Richard's stomach took up permanent residence in his throat.

"Yes, I will send a car home with you," King continued briskly. "And I would

very much like it if she would consent to trade some stocks for me. I have a few that are a disgrace to the portfolio, eh? Does this sound like a plan, Mr. Miller?"

Richard hoped he was shaking his head in the right direction.

"She can spend the night on my estate tonight. That way we won't waste any valuable morning hours, will we? Good day, Mr. Miller." King pulled a stack of files toward him, indicating the interview was over."

Richard turned and staggered determinedly out of the office, not letting up his shaking stride until he was safely enclosed in the elevator, zooming down eighty-seven floors to his cubicle. He collapsed against the carpeted panel and gripped his aching head. "What have I done?"


	2. On the Deafness of Those with Large Sala...

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 2: On the Deafness of Persons with Large Salaries

_The king led the girl to a room filled with straw. "Spin all this straw into gold by morning," he commanded, "or I will chop your head off."_

Rachel Miller lost her temper. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

When her father had stumbled into the house, white as a ghost and clutching his head, she had been certain he was having a seizure. He had stopped her before she called 911, but the scare had not left her in the most accepting of moods for the confession to follow.

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU LIED ABOUT ME!"

Richard cowered in the armchair where he had collapsed. Rachel may have been only five foot two, but her wrath was worthy of the combined heights of the Chicago Bulls.

"MY OWN FATHER HAS GONE STARK, RAVING MAD!"

"I'm sorry, my dear," Richard offered for the fifteenth time.

As suddenly as her anger had come, it disappeared, and Rachel collapsed on the couch. Perceiving the worst of the storm was over, Richard emerged from the overstuffed depths and tried to explain. "I lost my head."

"I'll say," Rachel muttered, but there was no heat in it.

Richard sighed deeply. "I don't know what we're going to do."

"What choice is there? We'll have to tell the truth."

"The truth?" Richard looked, if possible, even more alarmed.

"Yes, the truth. We'll say you're a doting father who would do anything to make his daughter look good, and you got carried away. You apologize very sincerely and hope he's in a good mood. In fact, we'll go explain to those goons outside right now."

Ten minutes later Rachel was speeding down I94, wondering exactly how she had gotten there. She had left the house with every intention of sending the car and its escorts home. Somehow, in the middle of their refusing to listen to her, she had ended up in the backseat, and before she knew it, the car had backed out of the driveway and hit the streets.

"Mr. King's orders were quite clear _indeed_," she muttered and settled back for the ride. It turned out to be a very long one, and it was several hours before the car slowed and turned into a winding private drive and began climbing. At least, Rachel assumed it was a private drive until they drove up it for fifteen minutes with no sign of a house. Another fifteen minutes, three security gates, one electric fence, one spiked wall, and one manicured hedge later, the car came to a stop.

Rachel climbed out past the guy holding the door and got her first clear view of her destination. Enormous did not describe it. Craning her neck as far back as it would go, she could just glimpse the tops of the towers in the deepening twilight. Massive walls made the color grey very prominent, with wings sprawling untidily around four sides of the pentagonally shaped courtyard. Rachel felt certain winged monkeys would swoop down any moment and carry her off to the wicked witch.

"Ah, Miss Miller, I presume?"

The man who approached her did not look like a wicked witch's henchperson. He was short and stout, with a few black hairs carefully combed over the large bald spot on the crown of his head. "Yes," Rachel responded uncertainly.

"I am Herman Zitwitz, general manager of Mr. King's estate here. I can't tell you how delighted I am to have you with us."

His beaming smile dispelled the air of evil enchantment and emboldened Rachel to say, "Look, Mr. Zitwitz…"

"No, no, you must call me Herman," he interrupted, "and let me know if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable."

"Herman, I'm afraid there's been a terrible misunderstanding," Rachel blurted as he took her arm and hurried her toward the house…mansion…fortress.

"No, Miss Miller, I am certain there is no problem. Mr. King's instructions were quite clear."

"But Mr. King was misled. He thinks I can…"

"Not here, Miss Miller. If there is something to discuss you must do it with Mr. King himself." His grip tightened and he all but dragged Rachel down a long corridor to where an open elevator stood waiting. Rachel was dimly aware of the plethora of statuary and sculpture lining the hall, but there was no time to stop and examine it, even had she been so inclined.

The elevator shot up with a speed that caused Rachel's stomach to drop. After less than a minute, it pinged to a stop, the doors slid silently open, and Rachel stepped out into the most beautiful room she had ever seen. The impossibly deep carpet was forest green, as were the draperies framing the bay windows. Ivory colored chairs and sofa, cushioned in more green, surrounded a coffee table with a crystal top supported on the backs of four ebony elephants. An inviting fire crackled in the gleaming hearth, and Rachel could not suppress a sigh of pure pleasure.

Herman heard it, and his smile became so wide it tickled his ear lobes. "Mr. King hoped you would be comfortable here." He threw open a door, and Rachel glimpsed more ivory and green before she demanded, "Mr. Zitwitz, you MUST listen to me."

"Miss Miller, I cannot."

Rachel blinked in confusion. The man wasn't deaf was he? "I don't understand."

"Mr. King's orders were very clear. I am not to allow any sort of…protestations."

"But…"

"Please, Miss Miller, I have a very good idea of what you wish to say, and if you value both our present positions, please _don't say it_. Mr. King is not a man to alter his decisions."

She had felt nervous and humiliated all afternoon, but up until this moment she had not been afraid. "You mean I have to go through with it, even if I can't…" she trailed off.

"Yes, Miss Miller."

Rachel took a deep breath. "And when I fail?"

"Then your father will have been proven a dishonest employee, and dishonesty usually pervades every area of a man's life, especially his business."

"I can't believe this. Are you saying that if I can't win a fortune on the market tomorrow, my father will be accused of…of cheating the company?"

Herman coughed uncomfortably.

Rachel's voice jumped five pitches. "My father has never stolen a thing in his life! His only fault is losing his head in stressful situations! You can look all you want, and you'll never be able to prove more than that."

"I am very much afraid that there will be proof." He sounded apologetic. Rachel stared in horror as the implications began to sink in. "Don't fail, Miss Miller." The elevator doors closed on Herman's gently smiling face, and Rachel was left alone.

She slept very little that night, despite a wonderful bed, and an excellent dinner brought up in the elevator by a uniformed maid. The elevator, Rachel discovered, that would not respond to her summons. Nor was there a phone, or any way out of her suite. The windows were sealed shut, and the door Rachel was certain concealed a staircase was locked. "I knew there was a reason to learn lock-picking," she mumbled as she tossed and turned on the king-sized bed.

At seven o'clock the next morning a maid entered to find Rachel dozing in an armchair by fireplace. She brought breakfast and a change of clothing that Rachel haughtily refused. At precisely a quarter to eight, Herman reappeared and Rachel silently rode a long ways down, into what felt like the heart of a mountain.

Compared to what else she had seen of this place, the room she now entered was spartan in the extreme. There was adequate lighting, but it served only to illuminate the cold stone walls and floor. Not bare stone: that would have been too much to ask of the architectural pride. The room was covered with huge mosaics, worked entirely in gray, blue, and white, depicting something Rachel was too flustered to determine.

Herman directed her attention to the room's only furnishings: a large leather office chair and a desk holding a full array of computer equipment. "I believe you will find everything you require, Miss Miller, but if not, just use the intercom." He pointed to one corner of the desk. Before he turned to go, he informed her, "All online activity in this room is monitored. I would suggest you stick to trading stocks." He left and the lock clicked with finality.

Rachel, in turning to watch him go, caught sight of something that had been previously camouflaged by the colorless mosaics. Stifling a scream, she stared at the skeleton, dangling by his frail wrists in the corner of the room. "So, Mr. Bones, we're in this together, are we?"

Rachel sank to the floor and buried her face in her hands. _I will not panic_, she told herself firmly, but at the moment, panicking and not panicking seemed equally useful. Here she was, stuck in a prison Houdini himself could not have escaped, controlled by one of the most powerful men in the country, who also happened to be a deranged control freak.

"Maybe the computer isn't really monitored." Rachel did not realize she had spoken aloud until a soft response echoed through the chamber.

"A cheering thought, but M. F. King does not make empty threats."

This time, Rachel really did scream.

_A/N Thank you, Equus! Your comments are always well thought out. Everyone should have a (longsuffering) friend like you!___


	3. On the Qualities of Persons in Cloaks

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

_The girl sat down and wept, for she could not do what the king commanded. Suddenly a funny little man appeared before her. "What will you give me to spin this straw into gold?" he asked._

Chapter 3: On the Qualities of Persons in Cloaks

He was certainly no taller than she was, hunched painfully over, his features shadowed by a floppy pointed hat that looked like a reject from _The Lord of the Rings_.

"Stop cringing, child, I'm not going to eat you," he snapped, managing to sound both crotchety and efficient. "I am here to help you out of your difficulties, so stop wasting time cowering…or wondering if you can take me down," he added as her gaze became suddenly focused. "I assure you, I'm a good deal stronger than I look."

Rachel stared up into bright eyes overhung by bushy gray brows and decided he was telling the truth. "How did you get in here?"

He smirked. "We all have our little secrets, don't we?"

Now she was getting her wits back and scrambled to her feet. She still didn't exactly tower over him, but her growing annoyance was lending her stature if not actual height. "Who are you?"

He flared his scarlet cloak and bowed low. "Rumpelstiltskin, at your service."

"I don't believe it."

"Very shrewd of you. I wouldn't either, were I in your shoes."

"Why are you here?"

"I told you, to help you."

She glared at him. "Why should I trust you?"

"No reason at all," he said cheerfully, "except that you have no other choice."

She worked her mouth like a fish and suddenly her anger evaporated, leaving her an ordinary five feet two inches. "How can you help me?"

"By making money. I'm a stock-spinner." He grinned, "Get it? Stalk as in straw, and stock as in…"

"I get it, I get it. So help me."

"But we haven't discussed payment. You can't get something for nothing."

"I have nothing to pay you with."

Rumpelstiltskin, or whoever he was, shifted impatiently. "What about that ring?"

"This?" She examined the thin gold band. "It's not worth anything."

"Where did you get it?"

"It was my mother's."

"And where is your mother?"

"Dead."

"The ring is therefore irreplaceable and priceless, am I correct?"

Rachel slowly drew off the ring and offered it to him. "I think you're crazy."

"Aren't we all?" He tucked the ring into a hidden pocket and shuffled over to the desk.

Seating himself, he began to flip through the printouts, muttering. "I see dear old M. F. has given you everything but stock of any value."

"I am supposed to spin straw into gold."

"Yes, but you at least have to have the straw."

"I'm afraid my father painted a glowing picture of my abilities, one no one in their right mind should have believed.  Mr. King _can't_ have believed it which is why I don't understand…" Rachel sighed and sat down on the floor again.

"I wouldn't worry about trying to understand, if I were you," Rumpelstiltskin offered, a trifle condescendingly. "It's no doubt for some deep and twisted reason known only to the very rich. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have to ask you to be quiet. I need to concentrate."

Rachel leaned back against the wall and surveyed the room in silence. Now that she had leisure to study the walls, she still could not decide what they were supposed to represent. Perhaps it was a forest or an undersea scene. Whatever it was, it was making her dizzy and she switched her attention to the floor. In the middle of the room was the only figure not arranged in blue, gray, and white. It was black, and she eventually decided it was a fox. It looked friendly, certainly friendlier than anything else in this fortress, including the smiling Herman and her so-called rescuer.

            Rachel's sleepless night was catching up with her, and she felt it impossible to keep her eyes open. The floor was cold and bumpy, but it was all there was. Crawling over to the fox, she curled up on top of it and fell asleep.

_The little man sat down to the spinning wheel. His foot moved the treadle and his fingers spun the straw faster than the girl's eyes could follow. By morning, it had all been turned to gold._

Rachel stirred and moaned. Her neck felt as stiff as if she had been sleeping on the ground all night. Opening her eyes, she stared up in sleepy confusion at a tangled gray beard and a long crooked nose. "You," groaned Rachel.

"Yes, me. You might try a little gratitude since I've been doing all the work while you sleep the morning away."

Rachel scowled. If he expected gratitude he was going to have to be more courteous. "What time is it?"

"Past one. Why don't you order us some lunch? I'm starving."

Rachel looked blank.

"The intercom," he reminded her.

"Oh." Rachel gingerly raised herself to sitting position, and realized she had been sleeping beneath Rumpelstiltskin's cloak. She stood up and handed it to him, "Thank you."

"You'd be a lot more welcome if you'd get on with lunch."

She stalked over to the desk and hit the button. "Yes, Miss Miller?"

Rachel completed her request and turned around. "I hope you're…" The little man was gone. Rachel's jaw dropped. "Where…how…Well that's just _peachy_." There came the sound of a key in the lock. "Fast service," muttered Rachel as a maid pushed in a loaded cart, then exited without a word, locking the door behind her. Rachel sighed. There was no hope of subverting the hired help, even if she had had anything with which to subvert them. She walked over to examine the cart.

"That will be quite acceptable."

Rachel jerked and buried her thumb in a piece of chocolate cake. "I wish you wouldn't do

that! You just scared a year off my life."

"You're too nervous," he said unrepentantly. "Do you like these little sausages?"

"No," sighed Rachel, "help yourself."

It was a very long afternoon. She tried peering over Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder, but he only growled at her, and she had no idea what he was doing anyway. She finally settled herself with a pile of useless printouts and attempted to revive her origami skills. By the tenth crane she was talking to them under her breath. "You don't like it in here anymore than I do, do you, poor birds? No sun, no sky, just a crabby old Rumpelstiltskin who hogs the sausages."

"Must you mutter? Besides, you said you didn't like sausages."

"Well what am I supposed to do? Play with Mr. Bones?"

"What?" He glanced in the direction she pointed. "Ah, one of our esteemed Mr. King's little jokes, I see."

"Was he alive once?" Rachel asked morbidly.

"I should say so, but not recently. Probably a relic of the former owners back in the seventeenth century."

Rachel shuddered. "Lovely people."

"Oh, they were. There's a large portrait gallery in one of the wings. You should ask M. F. to show it to you."

"Like I would ask that snake for a toenail clipping."

"He would probably charge you for it."

Rachel snorted and tried to even the wings of her eighteenth crane. "Why are you doing this?"

"The goodness of my heart."

Rachel declined to dignify the remark with a response.

"Let's just say, there are a lot of people who don't exactly cherish M. F. like a brother." He fell silent and Rachel tried to remember how to fold a cherry blossom.

At last Rumpelstiltskin pushed back his chair with a satisfied grunt. "That should satisfy the King."

"How much did you make?" Rachel stepped carefully around her stacks of origami to stare at the still incomprehensible screen.

"Around fifteen thousand dollars, give or take a hundred."

Rachel was duly impressed. "I didn't know that was humanly possible."

"It's not, for humans." He snickered at his own wit, and stood up. Rachel was regarding him with a fixed stare. "What?"

"You're not going to disappear on me again. I want to see how you do it."

"As you wish, my lady." He repeated his elegant bow, flared his cloak, and disappeared in an explosion of smoke. Choking, Rachel covered her face with the hem of her t-shirt. When the smoke cleared, the little man was gone.

A/N A special thanks to Melissa and Nala for pointing out the M.L.K. thing. I intended no disrespect to Martin Luther King, and have changed _my _King's middle initial to 'F.'

Notes to my charming reviewers:

Nala: Thanks again. I agree, Europeans tend to have more class, but Americans have more money, which was what I needed for this story.

Karli: Thanks so much for your lovely review! I hope I can continue to 'pull it off'!

Melissa: Thanks for helping out with my review level! Rumpelstiltskin is a great fairy tale, and it was fun trying to work with its inherent inconsistencies.

Lil Lillian 14: Glad you like it, and glad my suggestions were helpful!

Miss Piratess: I hadn't thought that about Richard, but you may be right. King is a _very _manipulative man.

Equus: You're welcome. Flowers may be sent to my dressing room back stage. flaunts brat badge

Phillippa of the Phoenix: Love your name too! The phoenix is a fascinating creature. Out of curiosity, where did you get the Phillippa? Thanks for the review!


	4. On the Limited Appeal of Money and Impre...

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

_When the king saw that all the straw had been turned to gold, he was delighted._

Chapter 4: On the Limited Appeal of Money and the Impressive Mental Prowess of Maidens in Distress

She could not say no to a bath and a change of clothing. She had been wearing the same shirt and jeans for two days, including sleeping in them, and accepting some clean underwear was not going to compromise her principles. The bathroom was as overly luxurious as the rest of her rooms, and she spent a blissful half-hour floating on the jet propelled currents of a tub that resembled a small pool.

She emerged, dripping and boiled, to find a maid laying out a rose satin evening gown. "Oh no, I can't wear that," Rachel protested. "I'll just put my own clothes back on. Where are they?"

"I'm afraid they would not be appropriate."

"What? Look, I've done what they asked. Now I'm going home, and I'm not doing it in some schmanzy dress that costs more than my dad makes in year. I'd probably tear it."

"But you're not going home, Miss Miller, you're having dinner with Mr. King."

Three-quarters of an hour later, a reluctant Rachel teetered down a flight of marble stairs, in heels high enough to endanger her life. Miraculously reaching the bottom in one piece, she went through a door opened by a liveried (she supposed) footman, and stopped in amazement: before her spread a breathtaking view of the valley. The thickly forested landscape dropped abruptly away from the balcony, rows of hazy blue hills stretched into the distance, and far down a river gleamed in the last of the setting sun. Rachel reached a hand toward the balcony rail, and a voice cautioned, "Don't touch, you'll spoil the illusion. Smoke, mirrors, and the wonders of virtual reality."

She was finally getting used to these surprise appearances. Rachel's breathing never faltered as she turned to view this new companion. One look at the perfectly tailored suit, the commanding bearing, and the face whose every line proclaimed unquestioned authority, left her in no doubt about his identity. "Mr. M. F. King."

His smile was confident in its charm. "Please, call me Max."

Rachel did not know what half of what she ate was, and could not pronounce the other half, but it was all superb. Max was a delightful companion, speaking fluently on the beauties of the region, his troubles with the chef, a play he had seen last weekend in London. Rachel, who had prepared herself for a lunatic tyrant, was at a loss. She ate quietly ("Please excuse the barbarically early hours we keep in the country," said Max), only allowed herself to remark on the divinity of the chocolate mousse ("Nothing to what they serve in Vienna, I know," apologized Max), and wondered how to broach the subject of going home without appearing ungracious. The more M. F. King talked, the less she could believe that the last day and half had been under his orders. This delightful man could not have been responsible for her waking nightmare, and perhaps it really had been a dream. It all seemed too unreal, here on the quiet balcony, with softly scented, artificially generated breezes wafting across her face.

As they lingered over imported coffee she took the plunge. "It's been a lovely evening, but I'm afraid I must get started home. It will be the middle of the night before I arrive, as it is."

"My dear Rachel, I'm afraid I can't allow you to go, just yet." Max's velvety voice was soothing. "What you did today was amazing, far beyond my expectations. But flukes do happen, and I must be certain. I must urge my hospitality upon you another night."

Rachel stiffened in alarm, her sense of release shattered. "You can't do that! I want to go home! I could have you arrested for this!"

"Could you?" he asked thoughtfully. "No, I rather think not. Good night, my dear."

He rose and began retreating along the shadowed pseudo-balcony. Rachel picked up her coffee cup and hurled it at his unheeding back.

_As the girl sat weeping, the funny little man appeared again. "What will you give me to spin all this straw into gold?"_

Sadly, the cup went wide, and she was still staring at the shards of porcelain when Herman appeared to escort her to her room. "He's mad, isn't he?" Rachel asked dully as they stepped into the elevator.

"Miss Miller!" For once, Herman's cheerful composure was shaken. "I cannot allow you to say such things."

Any hope she might have had of persuading him to help her was crushed. This whole place was held fast under spell of M. F. King, and there was no prince to rescue her. She cried herself to sleep on the silk sheets.

The next morning was an exact repeat of the previous day, except that Rachel was forced to accept the offer of clothing. Her own had not reappeared. As she heard the lock click behind her, she wondered if Rumpelstiltskin was going to stick his unattractive nose in again, or if it was a one-time deal only. She slumped down against the wall, and examined the blue, gray, and white pebbles between her feet. It would not surprise her if Rumpelstiltskin worked for King, and the more she thought about it, the more sense it made. He had come yesterday to make her believe she had escaped the trap, when really he was part of the plot. Now King could accuse her not only of deceiving him about her abilities, but of cheating on the test. Rachel began to feel very sorry for herself.

"My mother always told me my face would freeze like that. As it turned out, she was right."

Rachel looked up into the oversized features of Rumpelstiltskin and jumped to her feet. "You work for King, admit it!"

"I most certainly do not. Try not to act more of a fool than you were born to be."

His matter-of-fact insult took the wind out of Rachel's sails. "I…I thought…"

"I highly doubt that. Now, shall we discuss payment, or would you like to do it on your own today?"

Rachel rolled her eyes in resignation and produced an oval locket. "My father gave this to me on my thirteenth birthday. It belonged to my great-grandmother. It should fit your definition of priceless."

He accepted the locket and went to examine the fresh stack of printouts. "How generous. He's allowing you to start with what you, I mean I, made yesterday."

Rachel spent her morning staring at the stone fox. He really was a cunning little creature with his pointed nose and delicate feet, surrounded by a perfect diamond of white stone, in the exact center of the room. Rachel's brow furrowed and she suddenly felt her interest in the picture doubled. But the fascination of even brilliant revelations wears off after a while, and she was relieved when he peremptorily announced that he was ready for lunch.

She left him standing in the middle of the room, and when she turned around he was gone. Smiling in satisfaction, she casually dropped to the floor on top of the fox. A maid appeared with the lunch cart and Rachel settled in to wait, but no Rumpelstiltskin appeared. Lunch was getting cold, and she decided it was time to provoke some action. She cleared her throat and began to sing:

Where, oh where has my little man gone?

Where, oh where can he be?

With his nose so strange

And his beard so long

Where, oh where can he be?

"You're very clever," came the grumpy voice from beneath her, "and your ears aren't exactly something to write home about. Now get off."

Rachel clambered up and watched curiously. The fox's diamond split in two and disappeared. A moment later Rumpelstiltskin was standing before her, the floor once again whole beneath his feet. "Very nice," approved Rachel.

"Don't let it go to your head." He stalked over in the direction of lunch.

When he was again settled at the computer, Rachel sneaked a pencil off the desk and began to play anagrams with herself, first thinking of long words, and then rearranging the letters into smaller words. At least it beat origami.

She had just turned 'Transylvania' into 'yarn, vats, lain,' when Rumpelstiltskin peered over her shoulder. "I would have though you'd be tired of mind games."

"No offense, but you're not exactly a brilliant conversationalist."

"Savor, manor."

"What?"

"Savor, manor."

"Oh, thanks." Rachel wrote the words down, arranging the letters in a circle. Ten minutes later she looked up. "Morningstar."

"I'm impressed. That's not a word in the vocabulary of many twenty-first century women."

"I like to read."

"Hive, sour, rob."

A/N Sorry about the delay in updating. My life has been a leetle bit crazy the past couple of weeks, but I have some breathing space coming up. Special prize to the first one who can figure out the final anagram!

Notes to reviewers:

Miss Piratess: No, this Rumpelstiltskin isn't scary at all. Personally, I find him rather lovable. (As long as I don't have to spend endless hours in his exclusive company, that is.)

Melissa: Hope this chapter satisfied your expectations.

Phillippa of the Phoenix: Yes, I have heard of Philippa Boyens. I'm a huge fan of both the LOTR books and movies (although the written canon will always have first place in my esteem). I'm eagerly awaiting the release of the extended ROTK DVD! I called myself after a character in Dorothy Dunnett's The Chronicles of Lymond (few have heard of it, fewer have read it). The Rumpelstiltskin Problem: Is that the one with about ten different variations on the story? If so, then I have read and enjoyed it.

Equus: Yes, yes, I'm updating. Keep your socks on…(I bet _yours_ don't say "Angel" like _mine _do.)


	5. On the Consequences of Traditional Plotl...

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

_When the king saw that all the straw had again been turned to gold, he was even more delighted. He took the miller's daughter to a third room filled with straw, even larger than the first two. "Spin this straw to gold," he said, "and I will make you queen."_

Chapter 5: On the Consequences of Traditional Plotlines

Rumpelstiltskin left behind him gains of two hundred thousand dollars. Rachel, stiff from so many hours on the stone floor, enjoyed her bath very much. She was dismayed, but not surprised, to find another evening gown waiting for her, this time in yellow. However, she was hopeful that tonight would be the end of it. She was quite convinced within her own mind that M. F. King was insane, but madmen, or so she had been told, held true to their own peculiar logic. She had proven to him that her father's story was true. Therefore, he should let her go.

The view from the balcony was different tonight. Instead of wooded hills a rocky coast lay beneath her feet. The breeze was scented with salt, and the muted roar of breakers reached her ears. M. F. was already seated, but he rose when she appeared, and graciously pulled out her chair.

Max was again the perfect companion, solicitous about her food, amusing in his anecdotes of a safari in Egypt, but Rachel refused to be lulled. As they finished the tiramisu, Rachel smiled brightly and asked, "I trust I've lived up to your expectations?"

"And beyond." His voice was warm, and when he leaned toward her, Rachel once again felt her sense of reality slip. _No_, she told herself desperately, and ignored the admiring look in his eyes. "I've never met a woman quite like you, Rachel." She could not help the blush that stole up her cheeks. "Trade for me just once more," he whispered, "and then become my wife."

She froze. He pulled out a small velvet box, and she offered no resistance when he slipped the blazing diamond on her finger. "We will be married the day after tomorrow, seven o'clock. I've already sent out the invitations. I know you won't fail me, Rachel."

He drew even closer. _He's going to kiss me_, Rachel realized in horror. Desperately, she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Max," she mumbled between her fingers, "I feel sick."

His retreat was as close to unpolished as she had ever seen him. "My poor dear, I'll send someone to you immediately. The eel must not have been properly done."

Max left the balcony, and a moment later Herman appeared. He offered his arm, and Rachel leaned on it heavily as they made their way up the stairs to the elevator. Once in her room she dropped the pretense of weakness. "He wants me to marry him!"

"As you must. You are a very lucky woman."

"I refuse!"

"You do have that option, but I'm afraid the consequences might be…unpleasant."

"I don't care. He's got to learn that he can't control people this way! He can accuse my father of anything he wants, we'll prove it's a lie!"

"There are terrible accidents that sometimes happen in these hills."

Rachel felt cold, as if she had been suddenly transported to a penguin colony in Antarctica. "He wouldn't…"

Herman was apologetic. "You have seen too much, you understand."

"If I promised not say anything?"

He shook his head. "We could not take that chance. He is an important man. Nothing must touch him."

_The girl wept most piteously, and the little man had compassion on her. "I will give you three days. If in that time you can guess my name, I will release you from our bargain."_

When Rumpelstiltskin arrived, Rachel was in her usual position against the wall, listlessly fiddling with the ends of her shoe laces.

"My, aren't we cheerful this morning?" When this raised no response, he began a conversation with himself. "Good morning, Rumpelstiltskin, how lovely to see you. I must say you look exceptionally well this morning. Why thank…"

"Your beard is on crooked," interrupted Rachel, "and I baked these for you, to thank you for helping me, even if it turned out to be useless in the end. They're carmel-rasberry-triple fudge."

Rumpelstiltskin felt his chin with one hand and accepted the Ziplock bag with the other. "I was in a hurry, that was thoughtful of you, and what sort of nonsense have you picked up? Useless indeed." Rachel burst into tears. "For pity's sake, don't start that now!"

"Well, how would you like to marry some c-crazy m-millionaire just to c-continue the p-privilege of b-breathing." Rachel wiped her nose on her sleeve, and Rumpelstiltskin flinched.

"Here." He handed her a soft handkerchief smelling strongly of Tommy Boy, which Rachel thought odd. "Naturally you have to marry him. Do you know the story or don't you?"

"This isn't a fairytale! It's my life!" said Rachel, not quite screaming.

"Marriage to M. F. might not be that bad. As his wife you would have everything you could ever want."

"Until one day he tips over his rocker and knocks me off. No thank you!"

"It was just a suggestion. Shall we discuss payment?"

Rachel stripped off her engagement ring. "I'll tell him it fell down the drain."

"I'm afraid not."

"Don't be difficult, it's worth fifty million times the other things."

"You give it up without a thought. To you it is worth nothing."

"But I don't have anything else." Rachel fought a growing sense of panic.

"If you have nothing else, then you must make me a promise."

"I suppose now you want the king's firstborn child!"

"Don't be ridiculous. What would I want with M. F.'s brat? No, we're going to skip ahead. I have a riddle for you. Solve it before your wedding, and I won't request any payment for my day's labor."

"It's a deal, and you're as crazy as King."

"Probably." He fumbled inside his cloak and produced a palm pilot. Turned on, the screen blinked, "Password required." Handing it to her he said, "There is your riddle, miller's daughter, I wish you luck with it. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a lot of spinning to do."

Rachel sat staring at the palm pilot. In the story, the queen had to guess the little man's name, but he had already given a name. Rumpelstiltskin was the first thing she tried. Then she had gone on to miller's daughter, king, gold, spinning wheel, and a host of other words connected with the story, but nothing met with success. _Perhaps it is not his name, but the name of the man behind him_. "Who do you work for?"

"You grow more clever every day, Miller's daughter. You didn't really believe I was a mythic elf with amazing daytrading powers, did you?"

Realization dawned. "He's arranged to sell you stocks online at ridiculous prices."

"Not ridiculous. We set up a convincing progression."

"Who is he?" Rumpelstiltskin ignored her. She stared at him for a moment, then her face twisted and she retreated to the far corner of the room, beneath the skeleton.

For the first time she examined Mr. Bones up close. His grinning skull hung at her eye level, but her gaze was caught by the elaborately engraved manacles encasing his skinny wrists. A string of foxes encircled the bands, except for the locks, around which were cunningly entwined a pair of initials. The scrollwork was so elaborate that Rachel had difficulty discerning the true shape. She at last decided the first letter was a 'P' and the second was an 'R' or perhaps a 'K.' But whatever secret they might hold, Mr. Bones wasn't talking.

The rest of the day passed in silence. Rachel ignored her own hunger pangs, and Rumpelstiltskin seemed content with his bag of cookies. After an eternity of echoing silence and frustrating attempts at the password, he pushed back his chair and stood.

"Half a million dollars, a worthy dowry. And now I take my leave." He lifted the nearly empty bag. "Excellent cookies, by the way." He stepped over to the fox.

"Wait," Rachel cried desperately. "Who sent you?"

"Rumpelstiltskin, my lady. Farewell." He bowed and was gone.

A/N You may have noticed the story summary has changed. I'm conducting a little experiment to discover what type of synopsis attracts what kinds of readers. If you would care to leave any comments about what kind of summary persuades you to read a story, please do so in your review or email me.

Notes to Reviewers:

Midreamer: This story was actually an assignment for a creative writing class. We were supposed to modernize a fairy tale. Left on my own, I doubt I would have created this particular setting, but I was pleased with the way it turned out.

Melissa: There is a plot twist, and I'd wager you'll figure it out before the end. Some of your comments are very on track. But I'm glad I've got you intrigued!

Miss Piratess: I wouldn't agree with the assessment that ALL men are creeps… (I love my daddy!) But Max certainly falls firmly in that category. Don't you just want to push him off his own virtual balcony?

Zagato: Thanks! Keep reading!

Equus: Boy, you are really late. And you think this is conducive to getting your hands on certain documents? Hmmm?


	6. On the Usefulness of Anagrams and Elevat...

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

A/N Many apologies for the delay. Going back to college does funny things to my schedule. Last chapter should be up by middle of the week.

_"Then," cried the little man, "you must give me your first born child." The girl was frightened and did not wish to agree to the bargain, but she knew not what else to do. And so she promised._

Chapter 6: On the Usefulness of Anagrams and Elevators

"I thought you might enjoy a tour, since this is to be your home." Herman's face was anxiously eager to please.

"Why not?" sighed Rachel. Anything was better than staring at that mute screen for endless hours. She felt unutterably weary as Herman paraded her past an endless procession of rooms, many with great historical value, or filled with state-of-the-art electronic playthings. Everything blurred together, and Rachel's feet were aching by the time they entered a short, narrow gallery.

"And these are the former owners."

Rachel focused on rows of old-fashioned portraits portraying grim-faced men and anguished looking women. "I wouldn't be happy either if I had to live in this place," Rachel told them, and then realized with a sinking feeling that she was about to become the next face in this gallery. "Does Mr. King have other residences?"

"Certainly. This is only his eastern estate. As a matter of fact, he hasn't even owned it for very long. He purchased it from a former competitor. A sort of trophy, you might say."

"A very large trophy," added Rachel. Something about the conversation and this place was making her uneasy, but she was too tired to figure out what.

Exhausted as she was, Rachel could not sleep. She tossed and turned and at last fell into an uneasy doze in which she saw portraits from the gallery dancing a ring about a curiously engraved pair of silver letters. The portraits evolved into a chain of Rumpelstiltskins who spun about faster and faster in a circle which was the way to solve an anagram…

Rachel sat bolt upright, breathing hard. She threw aside the covers and ran into the other room to rummage in the carved desk for pencil and paper. At the top of the sheet she wrote 'Rumpelstiltskin,' and below it she placed a capital 'P' and a capital 'K.' Then, deliberately crossing them out as she went, she filled in the other letters until the completed name sat in front of her. Prestin Kimstull was King's vanquished rival, the man whose family, Rachel was certain, had once owned this house. It was no wonder Rumpelstiltskin knew the secret passageways.

Lighting up the screen, Rachel carefully typed her solution into the palm pilot. Access was not denied. Her accounting skills had never been great, but after an hour of careful perusal, Rachel concluded that what she was looking at was a copy of M. F. King's financial records for the past six months. If she was interpreting her numbers correctly, these weren't the files he showed to the rest of the board, but his own personal books, where he kept track of the funds he was systematically lifting from the company coffers. But what did Kimstull expect her, imprisoned as she was, to do?

When morning came, Rachel was a lot closer to her wedding and no closer to the answer. Herman arrived to announce a shopping trip in the city. "Mr. King thought you might like to select a few things," Herman explained as if to prove that his employer had a good side. "You can get whatever you like."

Under other circumstances it would have been the shopping trip of every girl's dreams. As it was, Rachel took a grim satisfaction in purchasing the ugliest and most expensive garments she could find. Herman staggered under a load of sequins, leather, plaid, and fringe. She may be forced into this marriage, but Rachel was determined to be the tackiest bride on the coast.

After several hours of hopelessly attempting to put a dent in King's checking account, Rachel headed for the elevator, trailed by the exhausted Herman. As she approached the elevator, there was a flurry in the crowd, and Rachel was shoved into the elevator while Herman's entrance was blocked.

Wild visions of making a run for it filled Rachel's mind, and she was determined to take the chance when the elevator slammed to a stop and the lights went out. The tinny guitar music continued to play in the background as cries of alarm subsided under the emergency lighting. "Ladies and gentlemen," the intercom sounded, "the problem is minor. Please remain calm and we'll have you out of there in a few minutes."

"Don't turn around," Rumpelstiltskin ordered.

Rachel's breath caught sharply, but she remained motionless. "Did Mr. Prestin Kimstull send you?"

He chuckled. "Well done, I knew you wouldn't let me down. And the Prestin Kimstull you would be referring to is the eighth. It gets confusing, otherwise."

"That file was fascinating, but I don't understand what he wants me to do with it."

"You understand that Mr. King is a criminal of the first degree?"

"Tell me something I don't know, and stop wasting time."

"To what lengths would you go in order to stop him?"

"Considering he's taken over my entire life, great ones."

"You could marry someone else. Someone with the power to thwart his plans and who can keep you safe."

"Someone like Mr. Kimstull?"

"Yes."

Rachel frowned. "Are you familiar with the phrase 'out of the frying pan and into the fire?'"

"Being acquainted with both men, I can assure you that marriage with Kimstull, while it may have its unpleasant aspects, will be far superior to marriage with King."

"They seem equally manipulative to me."

"Mr. Kimstull hasn't threatened to kill you."

"No," agreed Rachel, "but he's asking for my first child after all. Does it have to be marriage?"

"Unless you can think of another way out of tonight's touching ceremony."

"You could take me with you now."

"Do have any idea of the kind of time it would take to make arrangements that would keep you safe from King?" whispered Rumpelstiltskin as the elevator jerked to life. What is your decision?"

"Oooh…fine!" snapped Rachel. "I'll marry him, but if this is another trick…"

"You'll make his life a waking nightmare, I know. We'll contact you this afternoon. Now go and don't look back."

The elevator opened and its relieved passengers spilled out onto the ground level. Herman was waiting with an agonized expression. "My dear Miss Miller, are you all right?"

"Perfectly fine, thank you."

"I, ah, would appreciate it if you didn't mention this little episode to Mr. King."

"No, of course not." _If things go according to plan, I won't have the chance._

Notes to Reviewers:

Equus: You're right, the new summary stinks. But I'm too lazy to change it.

Melissa: Hope this answered your questions about anagrams. I'm a little fuzzy on exactly how Rachel baked the cookies, but I presume that if she requested access to a kitchen she would get it.

Phillippa of the Phoenix: LOTR forever! The story I remember the most from that book is the one that focuses on the father, and has him play the role of rescuer.

Miss Piratess: When the story is over, you may have Max. I'll even gift wrap him.


	7. On the Dubious Relationship Between Arra...

Disclaimer: See chapter 1.

And now, the astonishing conclusion to our story…

_Time passed and the queen gave birth to a son. One day, as she was tending the baby in the nursery, the little man appeared. "Give me what you promised," he said._

Chapter 7: On the Dubious Relationship Between Arranged Marriages and Happy Endings

Rachel was supposed to be resting, but she paced restlessly from window to window, staring out at the forest, the right half of the courtyard, the west wing roofs, and the forest again. Seven o'clock was only three hours away, and there had been no word from Rumpelstiltskin or Prestin Kimstull. She spun as the elevator chimed, and Herman stepped out followed by a procession of elegant strangers and a large box.

"Miss Miller, this is M. Delacroix. He will be adjusting your wedding dress."

"My dress?" Rachel asked in confusion.

It was as if she had asked about the existence of the sun. "Yes, of course, your dress. Now, I shall leave you in the capable hands of M. Delacroix and his associates." He bowed to the designer, who bowed back, and exited.

"Let's get on with it," Rachel said in resignation.

"First a small matter of business. If you would just sign here, and here, please."

Rachel automatically reached for the pen, then, as the heading of the document registered, her head snapped up to stare at M. Delacroix. "This is…"

"Your marriage license?" His eyes twinkled behind tiny, rimless glasses. "Now, if you will sign, I will stand in for Mr. Kimstull while Rev. Grevier performs the ceremony." He indicated one of his assistants.

"Marriage by proxy? Like in those awful Harlequinn romances I used to read?"

"Exactly like Harlequinn," he assured her gravely.

"He might at least have shown up for his own wedding," Rachel grumbled as she scribbled her signature.

"I'm afraid the explanations would have been sticky afterward. Were Mr. Kimstull to set foot on this estate without an invitation, he could be prosecuted for trespassing. We, on the other hand, have full permission to be here."

"Will I leave with you?"

"No, Mr. Kimstull plans to take you himself."

"I thought he couldn't come without an invitation!"

"He does have one, a very official one."

"This charade won't be stopped until the wedding?" A horrible thought struck her. "Don't tell me he's going to stand up in the middle where the preacher gives that line about anyone having any objections? That's so cheesy!" M. Delacroix patted her hand sympathetically.

Two and a half hours later, Rachel waited outside the door of the chapel, feeling her father's arm tremble beneath her hand. "Don't faint on me now."

He mopped his brow. "This is all my fault. I can never forgive myself."

"Dad, everything will be fine, I promise." Rachel hoped she sounded calmer than she felt. The notes to the wedding march sounded, the doors opened, and Rachel began her walk down the aisle.

Max, waiting by the altar, looked the perfect picture of a beaming bridegroom. The brilliance of his smile was rivaled only by his shirt front.

The aisle felt a mile long, but they arrived at last, and her father handed Rachel over to Max. She tried not to cringe as he took her hand.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered today in the sight of God…"

Rachel panicked. What if M. F. King, in some devious, psychic manner known only to the very rich, had divined their plan and ordered the minister not to ask for objections. Was she about to become a bigamist?

Rachel was so caught up in her self-imposed terror that she failed to notice the proceeding ceremony until a cool voice said firmly, "I do."

_We can't be at the vows already!_ her mind screamed, until she heard Max blustering beside her. "This is an outrage! I show you hospitality, and you return it by disrupting my wedding?"

"No, Max, the outrage is your marrying a woman who happens to be my wife."

Rachel turned and saw a slender young man sauntering up the aisle. He had sandy hair, a smooth face, and a long, crooked nose. _I knew it! I just knew he was hiding something like this!_ She stared furiously at that familiar nose.

"Rachel?"

She looked up and saw Max staring at her, his face very red. "It's true."

"I don't believe it." The words were a snarl.

Prestin Kimstull (the eighth), alias Rumpelstiltskin, reached into his suit jacket and produced a slender folder. "I believe you'll find all the paperwork in order."

Maximus Ferdinand King (the fourth) ignored the extended folder and drew back his fist. It was a most unfortunate accident that on its way to Prestin's chin, it ran into Rachel.

When she came to, she was lying on a sofa, with her father leaning anxiously over her.

"What hit me?" Rachel mumbled.

"Max," Rumpelstiltskin (_Prestin_, Rachel reminded herself) said cheerfully and appeared in her field of vision.

Rachel gave him a hard stare out of the eye that was not swollen shut. "Rumpelstiltskin, I presume?"

"Alas, the dear lad is gone for good." He winced. "All that stooping was murder on my spinal alignment. My chiro's going to make a fortune straightening it out."

"You should have told me."

He shrugged. "I didn't want you to give the whole game away to Max, in case you lost your nerve."

"And that stupid anagram! You couldn't have just given me the file?"

"Consider it a test of nerve. If you were going to help me face down Prestin, you had to have a cool head."

Rachel snorted. "And how is it that your name happens to have the same letters as 'Rumpelstiltskin'? I've never heard of such a ridiculous coincidence."

"My umpteen-great-grandfather left the old country to make his fortune and decided a name change was in order. He considered himself sly as a fox and fancied himself a spinner of gold. It turned out he was a prophet, in his own case as well as my own. Only of course, I was a stock-spinner."

Rachel groaned and closed her eyes, head throbbing. "You need some new puns."

"Excuse me," said Richard Miller timidly, "but would someone mind explaining?"

"It's all quite simple in a devious, twisted…"

"Very rich sort of way?" interrupted Rachel.

"Yes. Max King is, sadly, not the upstanding businessman he appears. In point of fact, he's been safely embezzling funds for years, which is why it came as such a shock to find himself on the point of discovery. That was due to a little judicious interference on our part. King used underhanded means to remove my father from the business market in this country three years ago. We had considerable interests overseas, and we transferred headquarters there, but my father began working to expose King for what he was. Not long ago we succeeded in bringing many of his illegal fund transfers to a point of discovery. King panicked and scrambled for a scapegoat. He settled on you, sir."

"Me?" Richard turned white.

"You were ideal. Not only did you have access to the company books, you would have no friends and no money with which to defend yourself when the accusations were made."

"But there is no proof," Richard pleaded.

"There would have been. Bank accounts, false paper trails…It's amazing what you can make the computers say. For what reason King called you into his office that day I don't know, perhaps to stage some sort of 'evidence,' but when he heard your hapless fabrication about your daughter, his sense of humor was aroused, and he decided to play with his mouse before he fed it to the lions."

"And to think I could have married him," murmured Rachel in mock regret.

"Indeed. When he discovered that you, my dear Rachel, appeared to be living up to your father's boasts, he got a new idea. If he married you, before pinning the guilt on Richard, then he could conceivably hope to have the whole matter of embezzlement hushed up, since Richard would have been his father-in-law. This would have been much preferable to an investigation, which might have exposed the truth."

"One more question: how did you know to poke your ungainly nose in when and how you did?"

"We infiltrated King's organization long ago, Big Ears my love. We also have people planted on his personal staff."

"Not Herman?"

"Herman," Prestin affirmed.

"I am not an embezzler!" Richard stated firmly.

_Thus the little man disappeared and was never seen again, from that day to this. As for the king and queen…_

"I want an annulment."

"Shh, don't wake your father," Prestin cautioned, glancing across the limousine to where Richard Miller had at last relaxed, after repeated reassurances that he was not charged with embezzlement. "And there's no way until after King's trial. Do you want to undo everything?"

"It will take years!"

"Probably, and by that time, who knows? You might decide you like being married to me."

It was hard to glower with an ice pack on her eye, but Rachel managed it. "You are self-centered, egotistical, and arrogant. Not to mention the fact you get really crabby when you're hungry, and have a bourgeois taste for the melodramatic."

"See, you like me!"

Rachel closed her eyes and rested her head against the seat. "Please go away."

"That would be highly impractical considering we're traveling seventy miles an hour. Besides, as long as we're listing traits, I'd like to tell you that you are hot-tempered, waste a lot of time, and, as I mentioned earlier, are possessed of oversized ears. I kind of like them though," he added, eying her reflectively. "Marriage to me won't be so bad. You can spend the summers in France, the winters in Australia. My mother is still in charge of the ancestral mansion so there's no need to worry about that. You may even fall in love with me."

Rachel snorted and rearranged her ice pack. "Don't count on it."

_…they lived happily ever after._

THE END

A/N Well, this has been an interesting little experiment, and overall, a satisfying one. Thank you to everyone who followed it!

Notes to reviewers:

Miss Piratess: I really enjoyed the way you interact with the characters in your reviews! I think becoming a coat rack is Max's destiny. Unfortunately, UPS is putting up a fuss about shipping him. Something about union regulations…

Equus: Thank you muchly for your faithful reviews and the trouble you took to make them insightful. And yeah, I know, he's hot.

Phillippa of the Phoenix: It's been fun interacting with another Phil(l)ippa! Sorry you don't like the name Preston (although it's actually Prestin), but the names one can make with the letters in "Rumpetlstiltksin" are limited.

Melissa: Allow me to extend my humble gratitude for your frequent and intelligent Comments. They are shining stars on my review page J I hope the ending was satisfactory, even if you figured it out in advance.

Unlucky star/a tree: Glad you read it, glad you liked it!


End file.
